Goodbye California - Alistair [8]
‘Very sick. Especially if, like me, you happen to be the head of security in a nuclear plant. There are card indexes there containing dockets on all nuclear facilities in the country in private hands. There’s always a very friendly clerk to hand–I’ve been there–who on request will give you a stack of more papers than you can handle giving you what I and many others would regard as being top-secret and classified information on any nuclear facility you want–except governmental ones, of course. Sure it’s a joke, but it doesn’t make me and lots of others laugh out loud.’
‘They must be out of their tiny minds.’ It would be a gross exaggeration to say that Sergeant Ryder was stunned–facial and verbal over-reactions were wholly alien to him–but he was unquestionably taken aback.
Ferguson assumed the expression of one who was buttoning his hair-shirt really tight. ‘They even provide a Xerox machine for copying any documents you choose.’
‘Jesus! And the Government permits all this?’
‘Permits? It authorized it. Atomic Energy Act, amended nineteen-fifty-four, states that citizen John Doe–undiscovered nut-case or not–has the right to know about the private use of nuclear materials. I think you’ll have to revise your insider theory, Sergeant.’
‘It wasn’t a theory, just a question. In either case consider it revised.’
Dr Jablonsky, the director of the reactor plant, came into the room. He was a burly, sun-tanned and white-haired man in his mid-sixties but looking about ten years younger, a man who normally radiated bonhomie and good cheer. At the moment he was radiating nothing of the kind.
‘Damnable, damnable, damnable,’ he said to no one in particular. ‘Evening, Sergeant. It would have been nice to meet again in happier circumstances for both of us.’ He looked at Jeff interrogatively. ‘Since when did they call in CHPs on an–’
‘Jeff Ryder, Dr Jablonsky. My son.’ Ryder smiled slightly. ‘I hope you don’t subscribe to the general belief that highway patrolmen only arrest on highways. They can arrest anyone, anywhere, in the State of California.’
‘My goodness, I hope he’s not going to arrest me.’ He peered at Jeff over the top of rimless glasses. ‘You must be worried about your mother, young man, but I can’t see any reason why she should come to any harm.’
‘And I can’t see any reason why she shouldn’t,’ Ryder interrupted. ‘Ever heard of any kidnappee who was not threatened with actual bodily harm? I haven’t.’
‘Threats? Already?’
‘Give them time. Wherever they’re going they probably haven’t got there yet. How is it with the inventory of stolen goods?’
‘Bad. We have three types of nuclear fuel in storage here: Uranium-238, Uranium-235 and Plutonium. U-238 is the prime source of all nuclear fuel and they didn’t bother taking any of that. Understandably.’
‘Why understandably?’
‘Harmless stuff’.’ Absently, almost, Dr Jablonsky fished in the pocket of his white coat and produced several small pellets, each no more than the size of a .38-calibre shell. ‘That’s U-238. Well, almost. Contains about three per cent U-235. Slightly enriched, as we call it. You have to get an awful lot of this stuff together before it starts to fission, giving off the heat that converts water to steam that spins the turbine blades that make our electricity. Here in San Ruffino we crowd six-and-three-quarter millions of these, two-hundred-and-forty into each of twenty-eight-thousand twelve-foot rods, into the nuclear reactor core. This we figure to be the optimum critical mass for fissioning, a process controlled by huge supplies of cooling water and one that can be stopped altogether by dropping boron rods between the uranium tubes.’
Jeff said: ‘What would happen if the water supply stopped and you couldn’t activate the boron rods or whatever? Bang?’
‘No. The results would be bad enough–clouds of radio-active gas that might cause some thousands of deaths and poison tens, perhaps thousands of square miles of soil–but it’s never happened yet, and the chances of it happening have been calculated at five billion to one.